


Bringin' Down the Walls

by Kenjiandco



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Earthbender Mikasa, Hurt/Comfort, I mean Marko, Jeanmarkasa as a pro-bending team, OT3, Other, Threesome, Waterbender Marco, avatar AU, bender au, firebender Jean, m/m/f
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marko  gathers Jean in close as his body begins to relax, pulling him back against his firm, muscled chest.  <br/>“Jean…” he whispers, leaning in to nuzzle his nose into the sensitive spot behind Jean’s ear, breath hot on his skin. “Jean…do you trust us?”  <br/>Jean blinks in surprise, tipping his head up to look at him,  trying to focus despite Mikasa leaving a burning trail of kisses up his arm, despite Marko’s lips being suddenly right there and this day took a very strange turn after the match in the arena.</p>
<p>(Marko gets injured during a pro-bending match, and Jean can't stop blaming himself for the accident; since Jean's higher mental functions clearly aren't doing him any favors, Marko and Mikasa decide they're just gonna turn those off for a little while)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringin' Down the Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by foxberryblue on tumblr as a gift for the wonderful wonderful Shynii -- some Jeanmarkasa goodness with a little Avatar AU on the side.

 

He’s surrounded by flying projectiles, the air itself turned deadly boiling against his skin as the fireball snarls past his face, dragging its near-invisible comet tail of shimmering heat.  Jean dodges, one foot sliding forward to keep his balance as he arches away and a jagged edge of stone grazed across his spine.  Time stills, frozen for that moment as he twists his body through the narrow corridor between the fireball in front of his face and the stone disk a centimeter from his back, and then he’s clear and Jean turns hard, pivots on his rear leg to bring his other foot up in a sweeping kick, arresting the fireball in its flight and sending it arching back at his attacker.

 

His head is up the second he feels the kick take and the fire respond, whipping around to find his companions through the haze of this unending barrage pinning them down.  A rhythmic _thunk-crack_ tells him Mikasa is to his right and just behind him, stone spinning away from her fists another streak of fire splashes against the ground between them and where the _hell_ is Marko--

 

By the time Jean sees him it’s already too late, Marko’s trapped and the rigid lines of his body scream that he _knows_ it, he’s got no way out there’s two more of those shrieking fireballs arcing in at him from either side as he throws up a wide shield of shimmering water. Jean’s heart slams into his mouth, just as another spinning rock drops out of the air a foot from his head.  He gasps, reacts without thinking and a wide puff of fire sends the disc spinning, wobbling off at an odd angle…right into Marko’s shield.

 

 Marko’s eyes flick up, they widen and Jean can only watch them light with terror before the fireballs collide with his shield and the stone disc splits apart into a million fragments lancing through a cloud of superheated steam.

 

He drops his own defenses, sprinting forward and a ribbon of water smacks into his ribs with a sound like a whipcrack, he’s on the ground before he realizes he’s fallen, still trying to yell Marko’s name with breath that won’t come and Marko falls backwards, arm limp at his side and the right half of his face suddenly covered in blood, Jean stands too fast, slipping on the water all around him and he never knew _what_ hit him before the ground drops away and he’s falling.

 

 

 

The crowd roars, the harsh blast of the buzzer suddenly muffled as Jean hits the water below the pro-bending platform.  “Foul!” Voices are yelling above him, echoed a second later by the whistle.  “ _Foul! Technicality—“_ and he doesn’t hear the rest because hands are grabbing at him, sideline refs catching the loops on his padded jacket and dragging him onto the hovering platforms above the water.  _Foul, how was it a foul I flung the damn thing straight in his face, it was_ my _damn fault – “Marko,”_ he choked out, coughing up water he didn’t realize he’d swallowed.  “Marko, where’s—“

 

“Jean! _Jean,_ calm down…” The refs around him step back and there’s a wet hand gripping his shoulder.  Jean spins around, head spinning and ribs aching and Marko grins at him, squeezing his shoulder tight.  He’s got a bloody towel pressed to a long, deep scratch over his eye, thick hair matted down by blood and water but he’s smiling and his hand slides up, just for a second, to cup his face, skin warm despite the soaking they just took. 

 

“Marko, I’m sorry, _shit,_ I’m so sorry—“

 

“Jean…”  Marko grabs his hand and pulls him up as the platform starts to rise.  “It wasn’t your fault – _listen,_ they’re about to call it!”

 

The echoing arena’s gone quiet (or as quiet as it ever gets) as the head referee steps into the center of the platform.  He raises his arms above his head in a motion like a one-two punch, then slaps his palms together and pulls them apart, fingers spread and a second later the announcer’s voice booms through the domed space, translating: “ _Technical foul…Wallbreakers…fire doubleshot.  Technical foul…Wallbreakers…cracking…”_ the crowd reacts in a roar, half booing half cheering that almost drowns out the announcer saying “ _Double advantage to the Turtleducks!”_

 

“ _See?”_ Marko yells in his ear as the ref retreats.  “He fired the disc too hard, it was already breaking up!  And their firebender was trying to get away with stacking shots, so of _course_ the thing shattered.  It _wasn’t_ you—“

 

_If I’d just taken the hit it wouldn’t have shattered,_ Jean thinks, chewing his lip.  He can’t bring himself to look at Marko.  _If I hadn’t choked and tried to knock it away…_ but a second buzzer shatters his train of thought and Marko grabs his shoulder again, leaning over the rail as they hover above the arena.  Foul or no foul it was game over for the two of them the second they hit the water, only one chance left…

 

The haze of the steam explosion is finally shifting off in the still air, and from this height, Mikasa looks like an ivory statue, alone on their half of the arena.  Jean watches as she raises her chin and rolls her shoulders back, taking a measured step across the lines as she moves up to take their double advantage.  Marko’s hand covers his, both their knuckles white on the rail.  The other team, the Wallbreakers, square off against her.  Their firebender, a cool, diminuitive blonde-haired woman, looks unruffled by the foul call against her, but as they take their stations the tall, broad-shouldered earthbender glances up at them, at bloody, battered Marko, his face pale and tight.  _He didn’t know the disc was cracked,_ Jean realized.  His heart twists for the shaken blond earthbender on the arena floor.  He must have been as shocked as any of them to see his shot explode into a mass of shrapnel.

 

The lights flash and the four remaining benders sink into ready poses, Marko’s hand tightens on his.  Most earthbenders crouch, but Mikasa stays upright, poised on her toes and the lights count down.

 

Jean grits his teeth as the buzzer sounds, grating on his throbbing head, and the tiny Wallbreaker firebender launches off the tile.  Jean’s never seen a firebender _move_ like that: she  hardly seems to touch the ground, the swirling core of a whirlwind of fire that sends shots racing in all directions, most of them harmless decoys almost indistinguishable from the ones that hit like a sledgehammer…

 

Mikasa doesn’t move a muscle until the blast of fire is close enough to singe her hair.  She taps her heel, just once, and the movement flips a single disc into the air, spinning lazily end over end as the fireball closes in.

 

“’Kasa what are you _doing?”_ Jean hisses, his fingers clenching but Marko squeezes his hand reassuringly, and Jean is shocked to see him smiling.”

 

“Smart girl.”

 

The firebender’s shot rebounds off Mikasa’s disc with a flash that sends trails of heat streaking back towards the Wallbreakers. The two men recoil from the flash, their waterbender throwing up a long, ribbon-like shield and in the same instant Mikasa goes over backwards in an arching handspring, letting the rest of the fireballs pass harmlessly over her.  The second her palms smack down on the arena tile discs spring into the air all along the center line and the momentum of her handspring sends them whirring forward.  The waterbender’s shield explodes into a blinding spray of droplets and steam as the stone discs hit and he’s over the edge a second later, knocked off balance when his shield burst, the earthbender recovers too slow to launch a counterattack in time and his own shot is thrown back in his face by two of Mikasa’s cracking against his shoulder and forcing him to step too far back, discs dropping out of the air as he overbalances. The tiny blonde-haired firebender drops below the onslaught, using her momentum to spin on the ground flames gathering around her outstretched leg as her teammates fall--

 

Mikasa’s feet touch down, light and graceful and the sound of the buzzer splits the air as the Wallbreaker firebender arrests her spinning dodge…one toe a fraction of an inch over the line.

 

Mikasa straightens up and flicks her hair back casually.

 

Jean and Marko remember to breath.

 

The arena explodes.

 

No one notices when Mikasa wavers, the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes or the way she shifts her balance, to take her weight off her ankle, where the white fabric of her leggings is slowly turning red. 

 

No one but Jean and Marko.

 

 

 

 

 

“Dumb, Ackerman,” Levi grumbles, rolling her ankle between his palms, frowning at the swelling.  “ _Really_ dumb.  You’re lucky you didn’t rupture…” he pokes at a puffy knot “… _everything.”_ He’s already extracted a long stone sliver from the soft skin under her Achilles tendon, and the messy but superficial puncture wound it left behind is neatly bandaged.  But it’s hard to land a handspring with a rock lodged in your leg, and her twisted ankle is deeply bruised and swelling more by the minute.  The medics whisked Marko off somewhere the second they left the arena, a cloth still pressed to his bleeding head and they’ve yet to hear any news about his condition. 

 

Jean gets up too fast, ignoring the protests of his tired muscles, spinning away from the little office where their coach is patching up Mikasa.  He stalks through the airy gym without really paying attention to where he’s going, head spinning with guilt and worry…he was too slow, he panicked and sent that disc into Marko’s head, he made Mikasa fight a round alone on her cut up ankle and if she doesn’t recover it’s his fault, they could be out of the running if the injuries are severe and somehow it was _him_ who walked away unharmed…

 

He finds one of the heavy leather punching bags, he knows he should be cooling down but he’s got too much desperate energy shuddering through his veins.  He lines up and starts running through the sequences Levi’s drilled into his body, _left hook right hook elbow up elbow down elbow up elbow down left hook right hook elbow up_ his muscles are screaming but he doesn’t stop until the blood on his knuckles builds up enough to get slick, skidding off the leather surface and sending him stumbling into the bag.  He draws in a shaky breath, suddenly aware of his pounding head and fuzzy vision, knees buckling as he stares at his bleeding hands…

 

 

 

Mikasa finds him, eventually, in a dim corner of the attic gym with his back to a stack of mats.  He’s curled in tight on himself, knees pulled up against his chest and forehead resting on his legs. 

 

“Jean?” she says, softly. He doesn’t respond, hunching up tighter, there’s nothing he can possibly say.  Only his hands are moving, his long, thin fingers twining and untwining and clenching around each other in a tense, fidgety dance. 

 

Mikasa kneels next to him, her bare feet silent on the polished floor, and catches his twitching hands in hers.  “Jean, what happened—“ she breaks off as he moves, throwing his arms around her neck.  She stiffens for a second before her arms wrap around his waist and she hugs him back. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her shoulder, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking.  “I’m so sorry…”

 

“It’s a puncture wound, Jean,” she says gently.  “Marko’s got a couple cuts and a scratched cornea, he’ll be _fine—_ hey, he’s _fine,_ we’re both _fine._ What’re you so worried about?” and it’s the genuine concern in her voice that finally tips him over the edge.

 

Mikasa doesn’t ask him to explain, and he’s not sure at all he’d be able to.  She just holds him close, stroking his hair as the sobs shake through his body, murmuring soothing nonsense as he cries out the last gasps of the panic attack.

 

They’re still sitting like that, Jean’s taut body twined around hers and his face buried in her neck, when Marko finds them.  The bandages on his face are gone, just leaving the dark scab that slices through his eyebrow and clips the corner of his eye.  Like Mikasa, he doesn’t say anything as he approaches, just sinks down on Jean’s other side and reaches out a long arm to wrap around both of them.   Mikasa sighs contentedly, leaning into his chest and tugging Jean with her, the three of them a warm tangled ball against the mats.

 

This by itself isn’t _really_ anything new…they’d spent any number of evenings collapsed in a heap, plenty of those in this same hidden corner under the glow of the skylight, but today, something feels…different.  There’s a tension, an energy in the air he can’t quite put a name to, curled into Mikasa’s side and Marko’s graceful fingers rubbing gentle circles over her bare shoulder.

 

Jean opens his eyes in time to see Mikasa and Marko exchange a glance over his head, long and questioning, and Mikasa bites her lip for a second before reaching down and lacing her fingers through his and Jean suddenly finds it extremely difficult to breathe.  He opens his mouth, but before he can come up with anything to say she lifts their entwined fingers and brushes her lips over his scabbed, battered knuckles. 

 

“Why do you do this to yourself?” she asks, but her voice is warm, not sad or accusatory.  Jean still feels stuck, at a loss for words but his eyes answer for him, sliding from Marko’s eye to her bandaged ankle and back to his own battered hands.  Mikasa’s eyes slide shut with a soft sigh, she’s still kissing his fingers, soft lips trailing from his knuckles across the back of his hand. Marko’s arms slide warm and tight around his waist and then she flips his hand over and presses her mouth to the soft skin inside his wrist, tongue flicking out to tease across the ridges of veins and tendons and Jean’s breath stutters and catches in his chest. 

 

“Mi-mikasa— _mm—“_ feels like there’s little shocks running up his arm, sending sparks across his chest and down his spine, heat curling up in his stomach and Marko  gathers Jean in close as his body begins to relax, pulling him back against his firm, muscled chest. 

 

“Jean…” he whispers, leaning in to nuzzle his nose into the sensitive spot behind Jean’s ear, breath hot on his skin. “Jean…do you trust us?” 

 

Jean blinks in surprise, tipping his head up to look at him,  trying to focus despite Mikasa leaving a burning trail of kisses up his arm, despite Marko’s lips being suddenly right _there_ and this day took a _very_ strange turn after the match in the arena.

 

“’c-course,” he mumbles, looking away, but that doesn’t feel right.  He can’t hide behind his normal gruffness, not here…not from _them_.  Jean closes his eyes for a moment, fighting for composure, takes a deep breath and makes himself look up into Marko’s face.

 

“Of _course_ I trust you,” he says, soft and clear. “Of course I do—“ and then Marko kisses him.

 

Jean’s first reaction is to stiffen, although that only lasts a second and then he’s falling, melting into it.  His lips feel dry and rough and Marko’s gentle kiss soothes them, rain on cracked earth.  There’s a rustle, a shift in pressures as Mikasa swings one leg over his hips, moving up to straddle him, her lips find his neck just as Marko’s tongue flicks against his and it’s almost too much.  Jean gasps sharp into Marko’s mouth, teeth catching his lower lip (although he doesn’t seem to mind, humming his approval against Jean’s lips) his hips buck up involuntarily and his hands fly up, tangling in Mikasa’s silky hair as she drags another slow kiss from his collarbone down to the hollow at the base of his throat. 

 

“Where— _ah-ahn, fuck—_ where did this come from?” he gasps, breathless, when Marko finally lets him go.  Mikasa chuckles and sits up, the loss of the burning kisses on his neck simultaneously a relief and an agony, leans back on her heels and cups his face in her strong, calloused palms.

 

“Do you trust us?” she echoes, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, and she speaks again before he can answer.  “We trust _you…_ you know that, right, Jean? We trust you.”

 

The warm, shaky buzz is gone in a snap, leaving  him cold and empty and Jean looks away, fists clenching on the mats under him.  _You’re wrong…_ he thinks, Mikasa wavering on her feet and Marko dripping blood in the dark behind his eyes.  _I’m worthless, you’re better off without me—_

 

_“Jean.”_ Mikasa’s voice cuts through his miserable reverie, and he opens his eyes to see her smiling at him, dark eyes warm and reassuring.  He glances back and Marko’s looking down at him too, the same warm, soft expression in his eyes…the same love. “It was just a rough match.  A rough match, that’s all.”  She trails a hand down to his chest, and his breath stutters as she begins to unfasten his jacket one-handed, her fingers quick and deft.  Jean reaches out, hesitantly, and Marko presses another quick kiss to the side of his neck, encouraging him as he slides his fingers into her hair.

 

“You trust me?” he asks, and Mikasa just smiles and kisses him. 

 

It’s different than Marko, cool and silky and she’s just a little rougher, her touch insistent and just a _bit_ demanding, pushing him to match her pace.  His jacket falls open and her hands curl around his cheeks again, tugging at his hair as she urges his mouth open and Marko leans his forehead against Jean’s shoulder, flattening his warm hands over his bare waist.  Jean starts and gasps at the unexpected touch, hips rolling up and then his breath is gone entirely as the movement presses him into soft, warm flesh where Mikasa’s legs are spread over his. 

 

His eyes flutter open and she’s watching him, smiling faintly as she pulls back just a little and grinds her hips down against him, he arches up against her, belly tightening and Marko moans softly into his neck.  Jean’s heart is pounding so fast he can barely feel the separate beats, teeth tearing at his lower lip as she rides him.  He slides his hands over her thighs and up her ribs, muscles flexing under her silk-soft skin, and hesitates as he reaches the lower band of her bra.

 

“I-is this okay?” he stutters, and his voice sounds wrecked and raspy.  “Do you…are you sure?”

 

Mikasa just smiles at him again, cupping her hands over both of his.  “Jean, I trust you to shoot fireballs an inch above my head.  I trust you to look out for me in the arena.” Her fingers tighten and his breath catches as she guides his hands gently higher, up over the curves of her breasts.  “I trust you to touch me,” she whispers against his lips.  “I trust you to stop if I tell you to.”

 

“D-do you want me to stop?”

 

“ _No.”_ And then she’s kissing him, slipping her fingers under his to strip her bra off over her head.  She moans faintly into the kiss as Jean cups his hands around her, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a nipple and feeling it stiffen at his touch and she’s moving against him faster and hotter, one hand rakes down his chest and she’s tugging at the buttons of his pants as Marko pulls his jacket down his arms.

 

“ _Leave that.”_ The voice is barely recognizeable as Marko’s.  Jean opens his eyes and sees Mikasa looking at him in surprise, one hand frozen in the act of unwinding her scarf.  “Leave it,” Marko repeats, a purr in his deepened voice and she smiles, tossing the end back over her shoulder and dropping her hand to tug Jean’s pants down his hips.  Jean narrows his eyes at the look that passes between them, realization dawning.

 

“How long have you assholes been— _nnn, shit –_ been planning this?” he grumbles, his attempt to sound disgruntled undermined by Mikasa tracing a finger experimentally up the length of his cock.  They at least have the good grace to look embarrassed, exchanging a sheepish glance over his head.

 

“We figured,” Marko says, leaning in again so that his lips brush the shell of his ear as he speaks, “You were doing too much thinking.  Getting caught up, blaming yourself for everything that happens out there.  You’ve got so much guilt, Jean.  So we figured…”

 

“We figured if you couldn’t shut your brain off, we’d just do it for you,” Mikasa says, a faint chuckle in her voice.  She’s divested herself of the skirt, naked except for her scarf bright against her ivory skin, and a shiny wrapper crinkles in her fingers.  “Hold him there, Marko.” And Marko’s long, graceful fingers lock iron-hard around his wrists as Mikasa lifts herself up, muscles rippling in her thighs, and sinks down onto him in one fluid movement.

 

Jean’s mind is _blown,_ head falling back over Marko’s shoulder as his fingers curl and  uncurl uselessly against the mats, locked in place by Marko’s grip.  She’s so warm, smooth and silky tight around him, her back curved in a gorgeous arch as she adjusts to his length.  Jean just shakes, fighting the urge to buck up into her before she’s ready.  Mikasa’s always been reserved, as long as he’s known her, quiet and self-possessed and naturally distant, she’s often uncomfortable with physical affection and the fact that she’d do this, for _him,_ leave herself so open and vulnerable in his presence starts tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.  Marko hums and kisses him, sweet and messy and dirty and when Mikasa begins to move, rocking into him in long, measured strokes the combination is building up like lava in his belly.

 

She arches forward, riding him harder and he leans up to meet her (as far as Marko will let him) kissing along her collarbone to the curves of her breasts.  “ _Fuck,_ Jean, _yeah,”_ Marko gasps in his ear, his voice hoarse and wrecked as Jean swirls his tongue over her nipple.  Mikasa hums, biting her tongue and Marko shifts Jean over against his shoulder and leans in to kiss her, releasing one of Jean’s hands to tangle his fingers in the folds of her scarf and pull it taught against her throat.  She moans at that, breathless and a little choked, head falling back as Jean strokes his freed hand across her flexing thigh. 

 

“ _Fuck,”_ Marko breathes again, he’s leaned back hard against the stack of mats, one hand tangled in his hair, his own hips twitching and shifting with interest as he watches Mikasa fuck herself on Jean, color rising in her cheeks as he tugs at the scarf around her throat, watching Jean’s abs ripple and his chest heave as he moves with her (every thrust pressing him back into Marko’s lap in a way that sends sparklers of heat shooting down his limbs and sparking through his brain) Mikasa opens her eyes and raises an eyebrow, and smiles when he nods. 

 

Jean’s thrusts are starting to lose rhythm, stars popping behind his eyes with every movement and Mikasa leans down to whisper breathless in his ear, “You close?” Jean just nods, eyes slamming shut as another shiver rips through him, her low, wanting voice tipping him closer to the edge—

 

“ _Good.”_ Marko grabs his wrists again and before Jean’s registered what’s happening he’s slipped off him, sending a shock of frustration through his body that feels strong enough to make his head explode…and then Marko flips him over, there’s a split-second glance of his eyes, normally so soft and warm, dark and hot and blown out with frantic desire and then Marko’s kissing him, hard and desperate, Jean’s hands are pinned on either side of his head and he twists against Marko’s grip, almost wild with the need to be touched.  Jean’s heels dig into the mats, back arching almost off the ground as Marko hovers over him, practically fucking Jean’s mouth with his tongue.  “You look _so_ beautiful Jean,” Marko gasps, the words interspersed with messy clinging kisses and he just sounds _wrecked,_ his normally gentle voice raspy and cracking.  In comparison to the two of them he’s still fully clothed, but his control is coming apart a little at the sight of Jean stretched out under him, tears clinging to his lashes as he strains against the grip on his wrists.  He draws back and takes a deep, slow, breath, fighting back some of his control, tugs Jean up and flips him over onto his knees, facing the stack of mats against the wall. 

 

Strong, calloused fingers stroke over Jean’s face, lifting his head: Mikasa’s settled herself on the mats, one leg drawn up neatly by her side and she tilts his chin up and kisses him warm and thorough and sweet enough to make him shiver.  Marko’s hand runs down his spine in a feather-light caress, lingering in the dip at the small of his back and the curve of his ass and then his fingers are suddenly right…right _there,_ cold and slick, his lips warm on the back of Jean’s neck as he whispers to him to relax.

 

Jean’s already so loose, boneless and fucked out that the first finger goes in easy, Mikasa stroking his hair and kissing him through the slight burning stretch.  Marko leans over him, one arm belted tight around Jean’s waist as he whispers breathless praises against his skin and Jean just shakes with it all, drunk on the sensations, Mikasa’s tongue teasing into his mouth as Marko works a second finger in, and then a third, twisting and curling—

 

Marko finds what he’s been looking for and Jean breaks away from Mikasa’s mouth with a gasp, a hand flying to his mouth to muffle his shout of pleasure and he feels Marko’s smile against his skin as he twists his wrist again, leaving Jean whimpering into his knuckles, other arm shaking as it takes all his weight. 

 

“Hey,” Mikasa takes his hand in both of hers, just like she did before, rolling it gently between her warm palms as Marko pulls back and Jean gasps and shivers at the sudden feeling of emptiness.  “Is this okay?” she asks, meeting his eyes, her expression serious.  Marko goes still behind him, clearly waiting for his answer and Jean has to take a few deep breaths before he’s sure he can speak without whimpering.

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay…it’s… _more_ than…”

 

Mikasa smiles, kissing him again, genuinely grateful.  Marko nuzzles the back of his neck and their affection rolls over Jean like a wave.  He spreads his hand over Mikasa’s thigh, urging her to shift towards him, dips his head to kiss along the soft skin inside, nipping marks into her delicate skin.

 

“Ready?” Marko asks, a tremor rippling through his voice, Jean nods, not lifting his head as Mikasa shifts and twitches under him, hips hitching closer to his mouth and then Marko’s pushing in, sending shivers running through his body.  Mikasa reaches out to stroke his hair again (and Jean takes some pride in the fact that her fingers are shaking) as he adjusts to the feel of Marko filling him up, harder and thicker than his fingers and it hurts more than a little but the unpleasant ache is mostly buried by the heat building up in his gut and he wants Marko to _move._

 

Jean takes a deep breath and rolls his hips back, just a little, testing out the sensation.  He looks up at Marko over his shoulder, trying to form the words but something in his face must say it for him, because the light in Marko’s eyes catches fire as he looks at him and he grabs Jean’s chin and kisses him, rough and desperate and messy.  He curls his free hand around Jean’s hip to hold him steady and the residual ache drowns under a mind-shattering wave of pleasure as Marko starts to move.  Jean’s gasping, moaning into Marko’s mouth teeth catching his lip and then Mikasa catches his face and pulls his head around, kissing him herself and once again he’s drowning in the sensations, too overwhelmed to keep up with what’s happening as her tongue curls around his and Marko rocks deeper into him, twists his hips a little and something _explodes_ behind Jean’s eyes and he breaks away from Mikasa to gasp for air as Marko hits that spot again and all the breath is gone from his body.

 

His head drops, arms shaking under his weight as he tries to ride out the feelings wracking through his body.  Marko’s fingers thread through his hair, they’re urging his head down, gentle but insistent.  Jean presses his cheek against his thigh, pulling in a shaky breath, and lets Marko urge him down, sliding his tongue experimentally into the soft folds of her center.  She shudders, grabbing at his shoulders and Jean moans into her, spreading his fingers over her flexing thighs.  She tastes musky and salty, strong but not unpleasant and it’s making his head spin even more as Marko curses deliriously and moves faster.  Mikasa leans back, arching into him, she catches herself on one elbow and her free hand cups around her breast, rolling her nipple idly between her fingertips, the image like something out of a dream Marko’s hitting that damned sweet spot with every thrust and Jean’s just _drunk_ with it, floating on the heat and the rhythm and the shocks running down his spine, building building _building_ and he’s so close, so _fucking_ close again—

 

Marko leans in low over him, his chest pressed to Jean’s back, kissing the side of his neck as he reaches around to palm Jean’s cock (he twists and moans and Mikasa’s fingers tighten, nails cutting into his shoulder) runs his hand down his length…and then curls his fingers tight around the base.

 

“ _Marko! Fuck,_ Marko, what’s—“

 

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna come before she does,” Marko purrs in his ear, squeezing him tight, his voice is dark and hoarse and he’s still moving, _grinding_ himself against Jean’s prostate and he can hardly _think_ with the need to come. Marko’s hand is back in his hair and Mikasa’s urging him on, whispering his name and Jean just throws himself into it with everything he’s got, slipping two fingers into her as he works his tongue around them and Marko’s lips are on his neck again, teeth catching in his skin, his arms around Jean’s waist are shaking and it’s not hard to tell he’s nearly as close as Jean.

 

Jean’s so far gone it actually takes him by surprise when Mikasa gasps, curling in on herself and her nails score stinging trails across his shoulders, whispering his name between the breathless kisses she’s scattering across his face.  Marko swears again, half-muffled in Jean’s neck, his long fingers curled around his cock and it barely takes a touch before he’s coming so hard his vision goes white and Marko collapses over him, whispering that he’s unbelievable.

 

Jean comes back to himself, maybe a couple of days later, to find his jacket wrapped around his shoulders and Marko snuggled up behind him, nose buried in the back of his neck.  Mikasa’s leaning against the mats, her skirt wrapped around her hips again and stroking his hair with a faint, distant smile. 

 

“I thought we broke you for a minute there,” she says grinning at him.

 

“I’m not entirely sure you didn’t— _oof--_ ” the second Jean sits up he’s hit by a crushing four-armed hug from two different directions, and the gasp turns into a breathless, winded laugh.  It takes a couple minutes of squirming before he manages to free his arms enough to wrap them around their shoulders, squeezing them both close.  

 

 “I need to get shrapnel in the face more often,” Marko murmurs, nuzzling his cheek.

 

“ _Gross,_ Marko,” Jean grumbles, and Mikasa just swats at the back of his head.  Jean sighs sleepily, his head swimming with exhaustion and the warm pink fuzz of the afterglow. “I love you guys.”

 

“I love you too, idiot,” Marko whispers, kissing his temple.

 

“Penguinseal.”

 

“Charcoal eater.”

 

“How did I get stuck on this team?” Mikasa asks the room at large, still curled into Jean’s side with her head resting on his chest, and Jean thinks, right before the fuzz closes in and he drifts off to sleep in their arms, that if he could make one moment of his life endure forever, it would be this one.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [My commission info](http://kenjiandcompany.tumblr.com/post/90016769186/kenjiandcompany-so-you-know-how-theres-that)


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